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THE LOVERS
A Denny Addison Documentary Film
Running time: 64 minutes
Black and White
TOOM STRECHES OUT on a rumpled bed. She wears a black lace bra and black bikini panties. On the nightstand is a telephone. In the corner the TV is turned on; on the screen Asian models in swimming suits and high-heels walk down a catwalk to jazzy music.
“How long did you live in England?” asks Addison’s voice off camera.
Toom, watching the TV set, replies, “Ten years.”
“Were you ever scared? You know, afraid?”
Toom glances away from the TV and into the camera, nodding her head.
“You want to tell me about it?”
“Harvey took me to church for Christmas Mass.”
“That’s freaky,” says Addison. “And you found that was scary?”
Toom watches a model turn on the catwalk, her movement brushing away the silky top and revealing a large breast with a pink nipple. “I never go to church before. I just follow what Harvey does. He picks up a book and sings. I pick up a book and sing. He kneels down. I kneel down, too. He not tell me about the wafer. You see at this church everyone goes to the front where the priest is handing out this wafer. I never know this word before. Wafer. I take it from the priest. It is small, flat. Round like candy. I don’t know what to do. I don’t see what Harvey does. So I stick it inside my pocket and go back to my seat. No one tell me this wafer is the body of Christ. I think it is candy. How do I know how church people think? I’m not hungry so I want to keep. After church we go outside. Harvey is talking with some friends. And I go to get in the car. This old man he runs after me. ‘Miss, miss,’ he shouts in an angry voice. I think, my God, what I do wrong? He grab my arm and shake me. ‘I saw what you did,’ he says. ‘This is a very big sin.’ I say, ‘What sin is this?’ And he says to me, ‘I saw you put the body of Christ in your pocket.’ So I say, ‘Sir, you must be mistaken, sir. I ate it.’ I knew from the way his face looked that he was angry and I must’ve done something wrong. I didn’t know! I think he wants to search my pockets and see if I’m lying. I stand there listening to him tell me I will go to hell and burn because I have the body of Christ in my pocket. My God, I was scared. I think this body is in my pocket and I think it’s candy. I’m going crazy, I think. Finally, Harvey he comes to the car. He tells the man that Toom would never steal the body of Christ. He defend me and this old man lose his face. Because what can he do? He has no proof. I tell Harvey, ‘I swear, I eat it. It taste very good, too.’ Then I think maybe you’re not supposed to say the body of Christ taste good. And I think this is a big mistake. But the old man went away.”
“What happened to the wafer?” Addison’s disembodied voice asks.
Toom’s sensual body shifts on the bed, as she swings her thin legs over the side. She opens her handbag and removes a cigarette. She lights the cigarette, crosses her legs, raises her chin and lets the smoke curl from her nose.
“First, can I tell you something?”
There is a long silence. Her large pouting lips suck on a cigarette.
“I never have sexual intercourse with Harvey. He was my first boyfriend. I go with him five years. And I learn English from him. Every day we talk, talk. Harvey’s from England and I think maybe he’s gay. He goes to a private boys’ school. So I think he likes boys. I phoned his wife—they are separated—and I ask her, ‘You think that Harvey is gay?’ She tell me, ‘No, Harvey’s very good in bed.’ I’m surprised to hear her say this. I say, ‘Are you sure? You not joke me because I’m from Thailand?’ And she says, ‘No, I tell you the truth about Harvey. He likes intimate very much. He always want the intimate.’ Then I think to myself if he’s good in bed, then why not stay together? Why does Harvey only want the oral sex with me? Sometimes, three times a day. The first time, I choke, and throw up. But after that, I don’t have a problem. In the morning, after lunch, then at night. I throw up the first time, after that, I quite like it.”
Toom smiles, flutters her eyes, looking away from the camera. “Harvey taught you English. What kind of English lessons?” asks Addison.
“I know I’m an abnormal girl. But I like to talk sex fantasy. Harvey phone me and talk sexy. Maybe we talk one hour. Harvey asks me many questions. He say, ‘Toom, what are you wearing?’ And I say to Harvey, ‘Toom is hot. She wear very hot clothes for you.’ And Harvey say, ‘Toom, do you wear underpants? What color is your bra?’ And I say, ‘Harvey, my bra is black, and I’m taking it off now. I touch my nipples. I pinch them. They are hard, Harvey. Tomorrow, you take your little Toom shopping. Can you?’ He say, ‘Yes, I can take Toom, but can Toom take Harvey in her mouth?’ And I say, ‘Toom can take.’ ”
“Toom, what happened to the wafer?” asks Addison off camera.
Toom giggles, sucks hard on her cigarette, holding the smoke in for several seconds and then blows it out in rings.
“We drive away from church. Harvey like blow-jobs in the car. He tell me every man like that. I say, ‘Oh really?’ He says, ‘It’s true, Harvey doesn’t tell a lie.’ So we are driving in London, and I reach over and touch him. Like this, with my hand. Then I unzip him and go down. We are at a red light. A man in a truck see us do like that. Harvey say, ‘Never mind, the light change we go like hell.’ After Harvey come, I take the wafer from my pocket and show him just one second and then put in my mouth. His eyes are very big. ‘You lied to that old man,’ he said. ‘If he knew what you do, then he would make big trouble.’ The wafer is between my tongue and roof of my mouth. It is too late to take it out. I try but it’s all sticky on my fingers. I lick off my fingers. Two seconds, it’s gone. Dissolve. That’s the word in English. I don’t know why I did this. And I said to Harvey, ‘I’m very afraid of that old man. I think he crazy. He say this candy is body of Christ. I know cannot be. It looks like mint. But I don’t want to say. It taste like nothing.’
“Harvey didn’t say anything for ten minutes. Maybe longer. Then at a traffic light, Harvey started laughing. He squeeze my leg here with his hand. I know he’s not angry anymore. But I ask him, ‘Harvey why you laugh like this? You have joke? Tell me.’ And Harvey says, ‘That old man was trying to make a citizen’s arrest. In the name of God, stop, you, and hand over the wafer. What does Toom do? She pleads ignorance and innocence. He knows you are lying but there is nothing he can do. I think you are telling the truth. You did take the wafer. If God has a sense of humor, then we both go to heaven. Otherwise, we burn forever.’ Then he started asking me if I had on underwear, and if I were getting wet down there. But I never go back to that church again. Once was enough. I think that old man will be there, watching for me. I don’t know. But Harvey’s a little crazy. Maybe he tell the old man what I did, and he call police and they kick me out of England for eating the wafer. I tell you the truth, now I think maybe the English throw me out then. Because I never have intimate with my first boyfriend. Harvey only want blow-job. And the English he teach me is good for what? Making crazy movie like this?”
4
THE SKY ACHED with clouds, rolling overhead like gray smoke pouring from the barrel of an old gun. This vast dull ceiling pressed down to the streets. It was a sky painted with a gruesome natural brush stroke streaking out of the violence of a forest fire or an earthquake. Robert Tuttle took a motorcycle taxi home from Harry Purcell’s house. The motorcycle driver said, over his shoulder, as he drove down the nearly deserted streets, that two of his friends had been killed on the street the night before. He didn’t know what happened to the bodies. But he saw the blood. He knew they were dead. He ran and ran and thought he was going to die, too. He said that he felt very sad for his country, and wanted to know if Tuttle could help. He refused to accept Tuttle’s money. Tuttle stuffed five hundred baht in his shirt pocket and walked away. As Tuttle entered his compound gate, his maid and several other women in the compound ran up to him, crying and wringing their hands.
“We think you dea
d,” said one of the women, looking at his face, hands, and bloodied clothes.
“I’m okay.”
“We so scared for you, Khun Robert. You not come home last night. We think soldiers shoot you dead,” said his maid. Her eyes ran red like blood rain.
“I stayed overnight with a friend,” he said. “Really, I’m not hurt.”
“We sure Army kill you,” said the maid. The other people in the compound—all part of an extended family—assumed Tuttle had been killed or arrested. He arrived like a ghost from the grave to find them in a state of grief for his passing.
In his sitting room fresh incense sticks burnt in a forest of burntout sticks. He looked at the Buddhist altar which he had long ago fixed to the wall. Fresh orchids in slender vases were positioned on either side of the Buddha, and in front of the flowers, yellow altar candles melted wax into tiny bronze bowls. Dead flowers covered the base of the altar, and a small clearing had been made for a photograph of Tuttle. He found his picture tilted against the Buddha image. He couldn’t help feeling moved by the deep emotion behind the ritual his neighbors had performed. These people had really cared. They did all they could to pray for his return, and if he didn’t return, then for the release of his soul. He turned and looked at the dozen people in his compound who had gathered, standing a couple of feet away. He didn’t know what to say; words wouldn’t come for several seconds.
“We very happy to see you,” said the man everyone called Old Uncle. Old Uncle stood barefoot, wearing a pair of cotton shorts and a singlet.
“Duang dow dee,” Tuttle said. My destiny is good.
They understood and believed him. Old Uncle addressed the others. “Khun Robert not like other farang. He special. Very special. We afraid for you. That you shot.”
Tuttle thought about Dee and her candle as she hovered above him with wide open eyes. “I’m a tiger. You must feed me English. Or I kill you.” While his neighbors had not slept the entire night worrying about his safety, he had been with a Thai girl who had once sold her body. He wasn’t special, he thought. He was no different from other farangs. He had taken a Thai woman on his own terms. What moral grounds separated him from the generals, forcing Dee to yield to his own force and power of will and money? He couldn’t find a satisfactory answer; because deep inside he knew there wasn’t one. It was disturbing to stand before this admiring group—the people who worried about him, looked up to him, had lit candles for his return—and admit to himself how far short he felt from their expectations and from his own.
After his neighbors left, he stood under the shower trying to wash off the blood and guilt. Changing into fresh clothes, he went into his office and played back messages on his answering machine.
“Daddy, why aren’t you home? Are you all right? Please don’t go out and when you come back phone me.” During Asanee’s message he could hear the background clutter of voices in the control room of the radio station.
“Robert, this is Vivien from New York. We are concerned about you. Bangkok is on the front page of the New York Times. It’s top of the evening news on ABC, CBS, and NBC. Your publisher has had an inquiry from ABC for an interview with you about the violence. They would pay a fee. What do you think?” Vivien was his literary agent in New York, and she was trying to send him an easy piece of work, he thought. After his homecoming he was in no state of mind to comment over the airwaves about what was happening in Bangkok.
“Hey, man, just checking out to see if you’re still looking for Daeng. I’ve got nothing to report on her alive or dead. HQ at midnight. Don’t wimp out.” Snow’s messages were always short, and to the point.
“We know your daughter is helping the terrorists at 108.3. You must tell her to stop before she gets hurt. Do you understand what I say? If you do not stop her, we will. That’s a promise, farang.” There were several more threatening messages recorded in Thai on the answering machine.
He sat back in his chair. He needed to think. Too much was happening all at the same time. Too many loose ends which would never match up—threats mingled with opportunities. One of the main messages of life was to have the courage to run the risk of the threats to seize the right chance to do right. He left the radio and TV switched off; the news overload from Addison’s crazy voice was more than he wished to endure. He thought about Asanee and wondered how much longer she could hold out. At first, he had thought that Addison was making up half of what he reported and passing on unconfirmed rumors because he lacked the imagination to invent any himself. The threatening messages confirmed someone was having trouble closing down the station. But it still left open a lot of unanswered questions. Who had made the threats? Why hadn’t the Army closed down the radio station? Addison’s version still remained untested by an independent observer.
Tuttle’s English language school had been closed. The teachers had been sent home; the students never returned after the first shots were fired. It was too dangerous to learn English. Studying English was the promise of a better future. At the moment no one thought about the future. They thought about staying inside, and alive in the present. He sat in his chair, peeling an orange. Using a thumb nail, he opened the skin and slowly wound the peel back as one, long orange band. The scent of the orange overcame the smell of the incense. From the ashes, it was evident there had been a kind of vigil. Several dozen incense sticks had been reduced to gray, twisted ash in the copper bowl filled with uncooked rice. He slowly chewed the first slice of orange. What could he do? he wondered. The orange was sour on his tongue. What should he do? He spit out one seed, and then another. What gesture of doing right made sense when so many were inflicted with the passions which led to temporary madness?
The image he saw was a canister with the markings—“Hand Grenade MKII Cont. M41A1.” The old woman with her claw-like hands, begging him to help find her daughter. The headman grinning that the daughter was beautiful. The daughter who had sent the money for the old woman’s pride and joy—the electric water pump for the well. Daeng. The twelve-year-old girl’s picture in a canister. He had tried but not hard enough. He had given up. The right thing, the decent thing was always the small gesture. The altar heaped with the ashes watched over by his neighbors on the night incense sticks burnt in homage for his return—this was the right thing, the small gesture, the not giving up. He finished his orange, pushed back his chair. He knew the eyes of the compound would be on him as he left again.
“I have to help,” he said to his maid.
Old Uncle and some other neighbors ran after him as he reached the gate. “Where you go?”
“Don’t worry, Old Uncle. I will come back soon,” he said. How could he say he needed to redeem himself for all the ashes they had burnt in his honor, and that he couldn’t come home until he had made that journey.
5
THE PLACE HE place he went for information about Daeng was a girl who was more than just an old friend. They had been lovers many years before. She had a child that she never told him about. He found himself walking into Bunny’s Bar on Soi Cowboy, a strip of go-go bars, which closed at two in the morning. It was here at Bunny’s he had discovered he had a daughter. Asanee. In the years since that discovery, it seemed impossible not having her in his life. Bunny was sitting at the bar, nursing a black eye and a Bloody Mary. She had descended to a bar girl who now had a drinker’s sagging body and falling face. She had gained twenty pounds since he had last seen her. It wasn’t even ten in the morning and she was on the booze. A go-go bar by morning light had the shock value of a strange bed partner staring eye-ball-to-eye-ball at you the morning afterwards.
“Tut, I’m happy you come,” she said, not having seen him for months; it was as if she had seen him the night before. “This is terrible, terrible. Killing for what?”
“What happened to the eye?” He sat on the stool next to her, reached over the bar and poured himself a soda.
“Don’t want to talk about it,” she said.
“A customer?”
She shook her head.
“The Army?”
Not likely. She shook her head again. “I told you I don’t need to talk about this.”
“Which means the husband.”
“He’s a bastard. I say to him. ‘No good staying open. No business.’ And he say, ‘Customer come. Don’t close the bar.’ I say, ‘What you gonna do to me?’”
A Haunting Smile Page 17